


Soldier

by NightWithoutStars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Declining Health, Dystopia, Fear, Flashbacks, Gen, Insomnia, Mourning, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Sad Ending, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightWithoutStars/pseuds/NightWithoutStars
Summary: They say you never truly leave the battlefield.No matter what, he would never be able to leave the destruction that was the Battle of Hogwarts.(OR: What I think the Epilogue would have really been like)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (mentioned), Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii,  
> Please check out my other stories, if you are into some Harrymort or Tomarry (Morsmordre and Your Soul in Me)!
> 
> I hope you like this short one-shot, please comment!

Harry Potter was broken. 

From the moment of his birth, his entire life had followed one purpose: To save the world from Lord Voldemort, no matter the cost. He had been prepared to die for salvation, had been prepared to join his loved ones in the endless paradise of death. Yet, as the emerald light approached him in a blinding, blazing storm, he had not closed his eyes forever. 

Instead, Harry had fulfilled the prophecy, which had condemned his life, and with it, his only purpose in life. So many sacrifices had been made, all of them leading up to this one moment, in which he had stared into the blood-red eyes and cast his final curse. 

Now that it was done, he was lost, drifting through his days like a paper float in a vast ocean. It was a dilemma, really. He could not give up the fight that had followed him constantly, could not continue his life with denial, as Hermione did. On the other hand, he was unable to raise his wand once more, unable to duel without seeing hellfire and blood-red eyes staring into his very soul. It was why he had declined the offer to join the Auror trainee program together with Ron. 

Harry was restless, hands ever-moving, unable to sit still for long. There were weapons in every corner of his apartment - positioned there in fits of paranoia - hidden under pillows, inside drawers and boxes, beneath pieces of furniture. Two wands, an array of knives, a muggle handgun. It comforted him, clutching his wand, when he awoke of nightmares of graveyards and death. 

Sometimes, on more occasions than he liked to admit, he could not differentiate between dream and reality. Ginny had found him once, cowered into a corner, wand in Hand, unseeing and yet too sensitive to his surroundings. He had almost cursed her that night, had mistaken her red hair for blood-red eyes, though there was little resemblance in the real world.

In general, he had difficulty with any shades of red. The young man had given his Gryffindor scarves to Ron, unable to burn them with the _Hellfire_ flames. In winter, his home was freezing, the fireplace always an empty, dark cavity, much like his heart. 

In the first few weeks, there had been nothing but hollowness in Harry's chest, an endless crater, where once had been Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Collin, Lavender, perhaps even Snape (in the weird, twisted way of their relationship). 

Then came the guilt and despair, washing over him in the form of a tsunami. They had died _for him._ He should have been the one lying six feet under, as it had always been planned by Dumbledore. Harry had sacrificed the lives of people with a future. They had so much to live for, so much he had taken from them.

Whenever the broken boy saw his godson, his orphaned godson, the thought of Remus and Tonks being there instead of him tightened his chest, so that he almost couldn't breathe. 

Merely thinking of George, the boy who had never been _just George_ , but always _Fred and George_ , made him double over in pain. Harry did not have the right to mourn Fred's death, not when he caused it. Not when there was a twin, who, for the first time, was truly alone. 

The guilt had driven him to the edge of another endless abyss, just when he thought there would never be darkness again. How was it, that he felt just as hopeless, as he had with the threat of Lord Voldemort?

He observed Ron, the boy who used to joke and laugh so much, finding humor in the most dire situation. The redhead still grinned, yet it was forced, shadows never leaving his eyes. Just as Harr, he flinched at the smallest sound, hands always finding their way to his wand. 

He observed Hermione, who threw herself into research, books, and her studies in an attempt to forget the pain and the parents that did not remember her. She never wore short sleeves again, hiding the scar on her left arm.

Yet, his best friends moved forward - as slowly as it might be. They healed each other, leaving their horrors behind ever so slowly. It made Harry wonder, why he was the only one who could not move on, who would forever be unable to leave the battlefield - forced to relive it night after night.

The young man did not know at what point he began to avoid sleep. As he sat in the dark of the night, wand clutched so tightly he was unable to open his cramped hand in the morning, Harry felt as though he was back in the tent. His eyes roamed the familiar, yet foreign bedroom, confusing it with trees and the walls of their tent. Footsteps belonging to his neighbors had his heart beating out of his chest in an attempt to escape through his throat. 

It was at this point that Ginny broke things off with him.

"I can't do this anymore, not when I cannot even sleep in the same room as you, without being perceived as a threat. I'm sorry, Harry, but you have to keep moving on, no matter at what pace! Go to St. Mungos, they will be able to help you!", she had accused. 

There was some truth to her words. Harry knew the crazed look in his eyes, as they flitted across the room, taking in every possible escape route and weapon, had caught it often enough in the mirror. 

He attempted to follow her advice, going to a therapist at St. Mungos. It had taken two sessions before he realized that it would amount to nothing. The woman, Jana Clarins, was polite and professional, uncaring about his name or status. He had appreciated her efforts to treat him like any other, though he knew that it was the reason for their misunderstanding. 

What Jana failed to understand, was that he had been prepared to die, that he had said his goodbyes in the belief to finally find a way out of the never-ending suffering that was his life. She understood his reasons, of course, the guilt, the lack of purpose, the panic. Yet, she was unable to understand, that he did not wish to live after having seen what would await him in the afterlife. 

Perhaps it was reasonable of her to try and convince him of his worth, to reassure him of the possibility of a better life. On a certain level, he understood it all. On another, he wished for nothing more than death. 

The first time he had been close to ending his own life had been over a year after the final battle. Harry had hit his head against a low hanging branch of the forbidden forest, as he attempted to restore Hogwarts to its former splendor. In the split second in which he gathered his bearings, he thought the pain to originate in his scar. _Red eyes, white skin, black robes_. Harry Potter saw Lord Voldemort once more in his own imagination. The brutal reminder of that fateful night, of his journey to death, had sent him straight into a panic attack.

Later, Hermione found him on the forest floor, his breath coming in uneven gasps, violent sobs shaking his entire body. There were no tears. They had all been shed months ago, until he was like a desert. His wand had been trained upon himself, the tip resting against his forehead, as he mumbled _"Avada Kedavra_ " over and over and over. 

He had wanted to die, yet he had not had the strength to do it himself. The lack of intention had been all standing between him and paradise that night. 

Harry Potter was broken.

The tremors never quite left his body, ensuing in difficulty with the most menial tasks. The broken boy tended to avoid afternoon tea altogether, all too aware of the cluttering of the cup against its saucer being the only noise filling the silence. 

His heart never slowed down, adrenaline seemingly coursing through his body every second of his day. 

Harry did not know what day it was anymore, the days blending into each other without any differentiation. He could not tell how long it had been since that night he dared not think of. The apartment became his fortress, as he barricaded himself inside, refusing to let anyone other than Hermione and Ron inside. 

They helped him, grounded him, acted as a reminder that he was safe, just as they had in that year - on the run. It was quite possible, that the young man would have starved without them, seeing as he felt no hunger. 

The toll everything took on his health was clearly visible in his drastic weight loss - ribs were clearly visible, joints stuck out. Harry began losing his hair as a consequence of insomnia. The once unruly curls were matte and patchy. 

The boy knew full well that he was closer to death than life, though he did not mind in the least.

Harry's second attempt should be successful. 

For the first time in an eternity, the young man retrieved his possessions from the moleskin pouch they had been since the end of the war. A photo album, the marauders map, a shard of a mirror.

Regarding the pictures of his parents was more painful than he remembered it to be. There always had been a sense of longing, accompanied by questions and the imagination of a different life. However, after speaking to his parents through the Stone of Resurrection, it hurt so much more, as though his heart was being ripped out of his chest, despite him having lost it a long time ago. Harry longed for his family, for what could have been, yet he yearned for death above all. He knew what awaited him would be paradise.

It was similar with the mirror. The memories of Sirius, of his broad grin, which bordered on deranged more often than not, tightened his chest. He could still remember the way his godfather had looked when he suggested for Harry to move in with him, once his name had been cleared. Sirius had been his sense of stability, of sanity, whenever the world gave up on him. The man had stood by him no matter what, had even given his life for a stupid mistake made by a fifteen-year-old. 

In the midst of memories of his beloved ones, those who would await him once he crossed the threshold to the realm of death, Harry felt truly ready to die, content to finish his life once and for all. He no longer clung to the hope of a better life.

The words spilled from his lips with far too much ease, the spell finally taking hold.

 _"Avada Kedavra_. _"_

As the green light washed over him like the rays of the sun, there was no pain, no regret, merely a strange sense of anticipation. A smile found it's way on his face, the first in a lifetime.

Finally, the soldier would leave the battlefield behind.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, lived no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys,  
> I just thought that it is quite unrealistic for all of them to just move on, so this is what I imagine Harry's reaction to winning the war would have been like. I tried to describe what it feels like to have PTSD, when returning from war, though to be fair, it might not be very well.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
